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by Deepdarkwaters



Series: Bespoke [9]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: "I get the impression that Harry's put a great deal of time and effort into making people like him, but doesn't want to make it look like he's trying," Roxy says. "Of course, I barely even spoke to him before, you know, everything. I think we spoke twice during training. But he was incredibly charming, and I've never believed that sort of thing comes naturally to anybody. Maybe I'm cynical. But I'd be very surprised if he didn't know he's respected. He's worked enough for it."Eggsy's laughing now, pressing his mouth against Roxy's knee in an almost-kiss from his place on the carpet in front of her armchair. "Maybeyou're cynical. You honestly don't believe some people are just full on Prince Charmings on, like, a cellular level?"She wrinkles her nose a bit at that. "If you put people on pedestals there's a very real risk they'll topple right over and squash you flat. I'm just saying."





	Home

'How can I help?' has never been Dylan's style; he's too good for that. He watches everything and everyone around him, learns and analyses, adapts himself to fit wherever he's needed. He's a honed tool in the immediate aftermath of V-Day, one Merlin doesn't even have to wield in any conscious way as he's doing what he can to drag the tattered edges of the wound in the world back together. Dylan quietly, steadfastly takes control of HQ: herding the rest of the frightened admin staff out of Merlin's way, fielding phonecalls from overseas headquarters, helping to organise first aid for the people not injured enough to need a hospital, and directing all surviving agents to the closest safehouses until arrangements can be made to bring them home.

When things finally begin to quieten down a fraction he brings Merlin another cup of rocket-fuel coffee and a cheese toastie, and Merlin gently strokes a fingertip across the back of Dylan's hand when he sets the plate down. He's seen many people dealing with all manner of injuries since he got back from Valentine's base, but seeing Dylan's knuckles scuffed and bruised like this, possibly even broken, is yet another stab to the obsessive, protective part of him that couldn't keep Harry safe either.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

Dylan looks like he's considering laughing and crying in just about equal proportions. "Yes, sir. Someone smashed a lorry into my flat block so I'll have to take a spare room here for a while if that's okay. I don't expect there'll be any shortage of overtime. But I'm alive. I'm--" He goes silent, squeezing his bloody knuckles in the palm of his other hand as though he needs the pang of pain to focus, then in a voice edged with desperation adds, "How can you bear to ask anybody else if _we're_ alright after you've--"

He stops again, letting Merlin carefully unfold his fingers to inspect the bruises and the raw places where he's opened the healing cuts. It's a horrible thing to look at: not the injury itself, which compared to some of the things Merlin's used to seeing in his agents is fairly mild, but the fact that it's there at all and the unsettling thought that Dylan - soft-voiced, mild-mannered, quiet, steady, uncommonly kind Dylan - had something invade his brain that was so awful it made him break his knuckles in his wild desire to destroy something. It was bad enough watching Harry lose control, but at least Merlin always knew he'd be capable of such staggering brutality if the urge ever took him. Seeing Dylan like this is finally bringing home what an immense catastrophe they've only just managed to avoid. There must be millions just like him. Billions. Hundreds in this building alone, and countless more in every country on every continent. An entire world of bleeding knuckles and shellshocked, frightened eyes. And they're the lucky ones.

There's a first aid kit in his desk drawer and Merlin opens it beside him, finding cleaning stuff and gauze to begin patching Dylan's hurt hand up as best he can. This, at least, is familiar and routine enough to take the edge off his sudden nausea, though usually it's Harry in front of him.

"You did well today." Praise soothes Dylan, it always has; it soothes Merlin as well to give it. "Harry's going to be so proud of you."

And Merlin wants to curse himself then for his thoughtlessness, for just assuming the HQ gossip train will have carried the news of Harry's miracle recovery around just as quickly as it carried the devastating news of his death. Dylan's eyes have gone huge and stunned behind his glasses, staring shocked down at Merlin.

"Mr Hart's alive?"

"I'm so sorry. You didn't know. Stupid of me to assume, I should have told you myself."

"No, sir, I think you've had more urgent things to worry about today." They don't touch often, at least not in the way that Harry touches his own lovers, but whatever strange connection exists between them is as solid as anything and Merlin feels it like shivering fingertips down his spine when Dylan starts to laugh, giddy with relief. "Please eat your sandwich before it's cold, sir, there's an awful queue in all the kitchens so you won't get another hot meal for hours."

"I will. Thank you." He kisses Dylan's bandaged hand impulsively, watching the quick flicker of his cheek dimples appear and vanish at the unexpected sweetness of it. "Will you do something for me?"

"That's what I'm here for," Dylan reminds him, sounding amused and just a little bit fond - here at Kingsman or here in Merlin's life and spilling over to Harry's, it's all the same.

"Go to sleep on the couch." Merlin nods his head at the comfy old leather thing he's had in here for decades. "I know you've not taken a break all day. At least an hour there where I can keep my eye on you, please."

Dylan fusses with Merlin's crooked tie knot for a moment then gives the short, satisfied nod he always does when everything around him is as perfect as he's able to make it. "Then back to work."

"Then back to work," Merlin confirms as his phone starts to ring again.

* * *

The day Harry's deemed stable enough to be flown home from Lexington, a peculiar sort of growing excitement starts to seep through the rooms and corridors of HQ and it seems to infect even the people who don't know what's happening. They know _something_ is going on but not exactly what, at least until somebody leaks enough to let the rumours shift from wild guesswork to something approaching the truth.

"Do you think he knows?" Eggsy asks, exhausted and jet-lagged after rushing back from a mission but adamantly refusing to go to sleep until Harry's plane lands him back home. "I mean, how much people lo- respect him."

 _How much people love him._ For the briefest moment Merlin catches Roxy's eye across the lounge coffee table, then has to fight not to grin when she turns her gaze momentarily heavenward as if hoping for a fraction more of the strength she needs to carry on putting up with this crush. He wonders if Eggsy's even aware of how besotted he is.

"I get the impression that Harry's put a great deal of time and effort into making people like him, but doesn't want to make it look like he's trying," Roxy says. "Of course, I barely even spoke to him before, you know, everything. I think we spoke twice during training. But he was incredibly charming, and I've never believed that sort of thing comes naturally to anybody. Maybe I'm cynical. But I'd be very surprised if he didn't know he's respected. He's worked enough for it."

Eggsy's laughing now, pressing his mouth against Roxy's knee in an almost-kiss from his place on the carpet in front of her armchair. " _Maybe_ you're cynical. You honestly don't believe some people are just full on Prince Charmings on, like, a cellular level?"

She wrinkles her nose a bit at that. "If you put people on pedestals there's a very real risk they'll topple right over and squash you flat. I'm just saying."

Percival makes a quiet little huff noise through his nose that might be the closest he ever comes to amusement. "What does it feel like, I wonder, to be worshipped by one's protégé? Must be nice, but I doubt I'll ever know."

"Fuck off, mate," Eggsy says, but there's amusement mingled with his embarrassment, a dopey sort of smile on his face even as his ears and cheeks are turning pink. "I ain't worshipping anyone who keeps a dead dog in his loo. I just think it's"--he pauses, swishing his coffee into a whirlpool in his cup as he searches for the right word, then settles on--" _interesting_. I mean like, look how many people are hanging round tonight when they could be down the pub or at home with their families like normal. It's like people need to _see_ him. Make sure he's real."

"He already swans round the place acting like he's God," Bors offers, getting up to pour himself another drink from the bar in the corner. "Imagine how insufferable he's going to be now he's Jesus as well."

Roxy leans back in her chair to look at him. "You're not a fan of the great Sir Galahad?"

"Now, I never said that." He used to be grudging about it twenty years ago when he won his place at the table, but he's comfortably settled in his regard for Harry these days, although the're never going to be friends. "He's tremendous. But if you think that can't coexist with being a pompous narcissist, you don't know him well enough."

"If you think Mr Hart is pompous, maybe _you_ don't know him well enough," Dylan says mildly from the doorway. "Sir."

Throughout this whole conversation Merlin's been caught up in a vague daydream about how delighted Harry would be to know he's being talked about, the bad as well as the good, and Dylan coming to his defence like this is the expensive little chocolate at the end of a five star meal - but it swirls in his stomach, an anxiety he hasn't felt for years and is finding increasingly difficult to bear. Hope has never been a comfortable thing for him to hold: he's too analytical, far too used to the science and facts of things. He doesn't want to answer Eggsy's question - _Harry's aware, and he's grateful, but no, I don't believe he'll ever truly understand he's like the keystone bearing the entire weight of an archway and not having him here would destroy everything_ \- because putting words to fears just seems to give them claws, and the fear he's been trying desperately to muffle since V-Day is already powerful enough, thanks.

"News from ATC?" he asks instead, and Dylan cocks his head to draw Merlin out into the corridor.

"They asked me to let you know the plane will be landing in the next half an hour. I've cleared the route from the hangar to the hospital to give Mr Hart some privacy, but everyone's sort of lurking about the halls hoping to get a glimpse of him like he's bloody Princess Diana's coffin." He sounds frustrated, uncharacteristically ruffled; if Merlin didn't already know how much Dylan cared about Harry, he'd certainly know now. "Would you like me to move them?"

The answer comes as swift and bright as a shatter of lightning, prompted by the voices filtering out from the lounge and a musical little jolt of laughter from Eggsy at something Merlin didn't quite catch. "No. Let them see him. They're just looking for something to hope for after everything that's happened."

"I thought you didn't agree with hoping."

"Well, V-Day changed a lot of things."

"Yes, it did," Dylan agrees quietly. He tucks his ever-present notebook under his arm to free his hands, and reaches up between them to fasten the collar buttons Merlin undid a few hours ago, re-knotting his tie neatly over them and adjusting the sleeve and waist hems of his jumper. Always the perfectionist, even with broken fingers. "I'll go and corral them into some kind of order, then. Let's give him a welcome he deserves."

As Dylan turns and heads down the corridor towards the lifts, for the first time in years Merlin allows himself to _hope_.


End file.
